


The Long Game

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sexual Tension, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two flatmates and a late night game of poker. Dangerously high levels of sexual tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Game

  
“I said, shall we play a game of cards?”

John looks up from his armchair, where he’s reading his paper.

“When?"

“Now would be good."

“No, I mean when did you say it?"

“Five minutes ago."

“I was here five minutes ago and you didn’t say anything.”

“It might have been ten minutes ago.”

“Nope. Here again.”

“Fine. Half an hour?"

“Are you just making things up?”

“Yes,” Sherlock snaps from the sofa.“I don’t have better things to do with my intelligence so I’m just lying here ‘making things up’.”

There is a lengthy pause after Sherlock’s words. He glances furtively at John and reconsiders his use of air quotes.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“John!”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Shall we play a game of cards?” Sherlock asks sullenly.

“I’m not going to engage in any games with you, cards or otherwise, while you’re in one of your moods,” John says.

“I don’t have moods, John. I’m not a teenager.”

“Are you sure?”

Right. Sherlock pushes himself up from the sofa and goes to stand mutely next to John’s chair so when John turns his head, he will have a face full of fitted, dark suit trousers. John does turn his head and starts a bit; he looks up into Sherlock’s face, then sighs and folds his paper.

“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

Sherlock quickly shakes his head, legs unconsciously digging more into the side of John’s armchair.

“All right then,” John says.“What do you have in mind? Do you even have cards?”

Sherlock’s face brightens and he struts in the direction of his bedroom.

“Of course I do,” he calls. “Cards are entertaining. Did you know that there are over two and a half million distinctive hands in poker? I used to distract myself doing the odds.”

Sherlock returns with the pack of cards, just in time to see John’s amused expression.

“Poker? Who did you play poker with?”

Sherlock’s excited look changes into embarrassed defiance.

“People.”

John looks up at him suspiciously.

“What people?”

Sherlock’s lips tremble to form a small circle as he runs through some lines in his head. No, no way to phrase this differently.

“Um…mostly me.”

“You played with yourself.” It’s more of a statement, seeking confirmation. Sherlock’s reply comes out defensive.

“Usually there was no one else around. When I wanted to play, I mean! You know the hours I keep.”

John looks as if his heart is crumbling in his chest into a small warm heap.

Sherlock hastily adds. “I used to do that…before. Not anymore.”

John keeps looking in silence.

Sherlock offers. “I played with Lestrade...once.” That sounds like a good answer.

But instead of returning to normal, John’s expression twists as if he’s just seen his favourite puppy being tossed across the room. Sherlock furrows his brow but at this point John finally gets up.

“Okay. What do you want to play?”

Sherlock’s sigh is meant to indicate that having a game of cards with himself might be the better option after all, if the alternative is playing with imbeciles.

“Poker. Obviously.”

John’s smile gets disconcertingly wide.

“You want to play poker with me.”

“Are you going to be obtuse all night?”

“As long as you continue to be arrogant.”

Sherlock gives him a haughty look. John ignores it and flashes one of his rare full-toothed grins, but his eyes have a glint of danger in them.

“You don’t want to play poker with me, Sherlock.”

“I’m sure I’ve just expressed exactly that wish, John.”

“Now _you_ ’ _re_ being obtuse.”

“And _you_ ’ _re_ being arrogant.”

They stand close inside each other’s space, eyes locked. Sherlock says softly, “Why wouldn’t I want to play poker with you?”

There is the perfect skip of a moment, not too long, not hasty either—so very John—before Sherlock hears the answer.

“Because I’m very good.”

Sherlock doesn’t miss the measured self-assurance and the lack of flashy body language. Oh, this man doesn’t have a _clue_ just how very good he really is! For a second, something sizzles in Sherlock’s belly. He wonders if it’s the challenge—although he’s felt this around John before, when there wasn’t a challenge in sight. He suddenly realizes he’s no longer bored at all, and they haven’t even shuffled the cards. He smiles at John: a wry, lopsided smile.

“Excellent. So am I.”

***

Three hours later they are at their usual sides of the table in the sitting room, coins and notes and cards occupying most of the wooden surface between them. Tension occupies the rest.

Sherlock looks at his cards, then at John’s face. He leans closer and his eyes attempt to X-ray his opponent’s brain. John’s lips twitch in a smirk.

“I’ve already told you: you can’t deduce my hand from my face. You’re not very good at reading people, Sherlock, when there isn’t a crime involved.”

John glances at the pile of cash he’s accumulated and adds. “Unless, of course, we don’t count this as daylight robbery.”

Sherlock suppresses an urge to grab John by the front of his shirt and just—oh, shake the man.

“Not all my cash is gone,” he points out.

“Soon to change.” John continues to smile, but his voice is deeper than usual. “That’s a promise.”

Sherlock scrutinizes John’s expression silently for another few seconds. Only the table lamp is on, throwing light at odd angles over them. He can see John’s two-day stubble. He feels John’s eyes travelling over his face, too; but then they move to his neck and linger there. John’s probably checking his Adam’s apple for signs of nervousness—a classic giveaway, that one. Yes, that must be it. Despite himself, Sherlock swallows. He’s grateful that at least it isn’t because of his hand. It’s a good hand!

He sharply drops his cards and counts his cash; then he slides the lot of it in one smooth gesture to the stakes in the middle, calling.

“Let me see.”

John leans back, eyes obscured in partial darkness.

“All right. But you show me yours first.”

The two stare at each other; Sherlock is the first to drop his eyes to his cards. He turns them face up on the table.

Three of a kind. That should be just fine.

John _tsks_ and purses those lips. Then, as he’s lowering his cards, he clears his throat and says, “That’s it then. I think it’s time for bed.”

He’s got a straight.

Sherlock closes his eyes. He knows he’s moving his bottom jaw forward in apparent frustration, making his pout more prominent, but he doesn’t stop. John’s silence becomes very pronounced with the absence of a visual. Sherlock snaps his eyes back open. John hasn’t reached for his winnings, but is watching Sherlock with a deadpan expression. Only his eyes look a bit...greedy. Sherlock wonders if John’s noticed the same look in Sherlock's eyes throughout the evening. A shiver tickles his spine.

“One more,” he says, with perfect timing.

John raises an eyebrow—another atypical gesture. This has been such an entertaining evening. Which, if Sherlock knows anything about betting, isn’t over yet.

The raised eyebrow is soon accompanied by a predictable comment. The tone, however, is anything but. It’s assertive—commanding, even. It’s got John’s soft timbre at the base, but a new, thrilling hardness at the front.

“You’ve got nothing left, Sherlock. I own you.”

Sherlock’s stomach flips, but he quickly gathers himself.

“Still. One last game.”

“Okay, say we play. Say I give you back your cash and we put it all in one game. If you win, you get all the money. If I win, nothing changes. I’ve already won it all.” John pauses, then says with emphasis, “What’s in it for me?”

Sherlock steeples his fingers and rests them over his mouth. He pushes his lips forward slowly, pressing them into the long digits. His eyes don’t leave John’s, nor John’s his. At last Sherlock speaks, moist breath caressing his own fingers.

“I’m sure there’s something I can offer.”

The single change on John’s face is the fast widening of his nostrils—oh, he wasn’t lying that he was good—everything else remains impassive. There is a pause, filled with the quiet hum of the fridge and nothing else—it _is_ past midnight. Sherlock takes the opportunity to undo the sleeves of his dark green shirt, fingers rubbing the buttons, then pushing them deftly through the tight openings at the cuffs, brushing the inside of his wrist in passing. He rolls the material up, less delicately—one, then two, then three folds—and the sleeves crease just below the elbows, baring Sherlock’s lower arms.

His eyes return to John, who hasn’t said a word. One look at him tells Sherlock that the game is on.

“Deal.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lip moves up in dry appreciation of the blatant yet clever pun. He starts dealing.

***

It’s a long game. Well, it’s been a long arc of a game, anyway, but this final stage positively drags, languid and self-indulgent. Both of them take their time asking for cards. John in particular contemplates for ages, shuffling in his seat, messing his hair with rough tugs: all designed to confuse Sherlock. Finally he presses one finger to his mouth indicating the number and demands: “Give me.” Sherlock covers the single requested card with his palm and slides it all the way to John’s hand; the tip of his middle finger barely brushes John’s before retreating.

John suddenly huffs and starts undoing the buttons of his shirt with abrupt fingers. He takes it off, throws it carelessly aside and stretches, his plain white t-shirt pulling tightly over his chest and blinding Sherlock for a moment. John’s naked arms look sturdy on the table. Sherlock notices the thick wisps of hair that cover them; they seem soft under the light, in contrast to the tautness of the muscle underneath.

They resume looking at each other. John does his patent quick lick of the lips.

Sherlock never suspected poker could be such an intense game. He wonders if he should try it with other people. John will have to be there, too, of course. He is such a good player that Sherlock wouldn’t want his table without him.

Minutes tick by with only the sounds of cash being handled and numbers being called.

The tiniest traces of smugness begin to show all over John; he clearly thinks he’s won this…whatever this is. Sherlock puts his cards face down on the table and stretches luxuriously, then shakes his head, curls settling into further disarray. He rubs his hand over the back of his neck to his shoulder and squeezes once.

“Are your shoulders stiff?” John asks in a carefully neutral voice.

“A bit.”

“You should have given up half-way through and gone to bed.”

“Why would I do that, when I can win?”

“The answer is, as you would say, obvious. Learn to accept defeat, Sherlock.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much of a point, since it happens to me so rarely.”

“If you want to continue playing poker with me in the futur—”

“I’d love to.”

“Then defeat will start happening a lot more often.”

“To you.”

“Really Sherlock? That all you’ve got?” John is smiling at him in a condescending manner, secure in his superiority. Sherlock wishes he could jump up and wipe the smile off his lips.

John suddenly leans forward.

“Okay,” he says.“I should have been more specific and saved you the humiliation. I’m not just good at this. I’ve played poker since I was fifteen. My uncle taught me and he was a pro. Then I played all the way through med school. Then I played in the army. The army, Sherlock. Hours and hours of waiting in the desert, with nothing but a pack of cards. The only thing that’s stopped me from making a living out of this is my morals.”

“Oh, dull.” Sherlock rolls of his eyes.

John narrows his own.

“You wouldn’t find it dull if—“

“If?” Sherlock raises his eyebrows, when it becomes evident John has no intention of finishing his sentence.

John takes a deep breath and there it is: that no-nonsense, private, self-contained individual Sherlock’s found so fascinating time and time again. Now he’s also making his blood boil.

“If I didn’t have my ‘dull’ morals, I’d have got you to play months ago and saved myself the trouble of paying rent. You should be grateful.”

“Oh, should I?” There’s the perfect dose of mockery in Sherlock’s tone. Right on cue John purses his lips for the briefest instant, then his face is relaxed again and his teeth show. He’s got such an innocent, sweet smile…Sherlock forgets himself and the game for a moment. John’s voice floats to him: honeyed, but with a nasty sting to it.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we? Winner here…” He gestures, not at the table, but between them—and leaves this sentence unfinished, too. It doesn’t require an end. Neither needs anything spelt out to him at this point. They’re watching each other with burning intent.

“You first, this time,” says Sherlock.

John lets him wait; he just sits and regards Sherlock calmly, for a whole long minute. Uncertainty begins to creep in Sherlock’s gut. Damn the man, when did he turn out to be such a _player_? John Watson, surprises at every corner. Taunting, wholesome, unfathomable. Sherlock feels a growl forming in his own throat.

John shows his hand. He’s got a full house. He’s got a full house and he is glowing, and gloating to boot. Oh, damn the man...

But he is about to be unravelled, right now! Sherlock's got a four of a kind. And he's just realized this was never about poker.

He stands up, full of adrenaline. So does John, who stares at the cards with incredulity. Sherlock’s eating his victory off John’s face, his eyes narrowing and shining like a cat’s. His prey is stunned, but at last John lifts his eyes and meets Sherlock’s across the table. What he sees makes him tremble. He tries to suppress it, but too late; Sherlock’s slid around the table in a blink of an eye and is so close that he can feel the traitorous ripples move over John’s body. He leans closer to John’s ear and breathes his words out huskily.

“You see, John, I had some early practice too. I used to play with _Mycroft_ , for years. I could tell your cards to the last jack of clubs. Because, while I might not be very good at reading people, I am exceptionally good at reading you.”

John finds some air to articulate his dawning suspicion.

“You’ve played—You’ve played a long game!”

“Oh, longer than I thought.”

Sherlock pushes his fingers into the hair at the back of John’s head and descends on him, teeth and tongue and mouth all hot with pent-up frustration. He sucks on the skin at John’s throat, drags wet lines across his jaw and finally seeks his mouth, which has opened in shock, but—Sherlock hears the moan—arousal, too? Arousal! The air hisses out of Sherlock’s chest and he sinks in, tongue immediately stroking and tasting John’s tongue, and _quenching,_ because it’s been so long, too long, and he hadn’t even known it, too long, this whole night. Gorgeous, infuriating John with his mussed hair and his maddening confidence; it’s been days and weeks, and months…

Sherlock purrs and pushes John back over the table, plastering his own body over his. They kiss fiercely and their hands roam over clothing and flesh, pinching and grabbing; John arches his neck when Sherlock’s thigh pushes between his legs, hip rubbing John’s erection with deadly precision. That John is hard as a rock doesn’t surprise Sherlock; what surprises him is that John still tries to pant a question: “Wha—What are you doing?”

Sherlock sucks at his earlobe, then raises up to look at John, spread under him and framed by a collection of coins and colourful bits of paper. He lowers his eyes to John’s crotch and his voice comes out in a raw rumble.

“Collecting what’s mine.”

Sherlock doesn’t let John respond to that; he dives to where his eyes have already gone, tugs John’s t-shirt out of his jeans and buries his face in the soft hair at his stomach, nuzzling and lapping. John’s legs fall open and he digs his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock bites at the side of his abdomen, where the skin is hairless and smooth, then bites again, suction creating a wonderful vacuum. John gasps and his hips lift. Sherlock pulls down the jeans’ zipper, the back of his hand impatiently rubbing the hardness underneath. He yanks John’s jeans down to his ankles, then finally his palm covers John’s erection and Sherlock holds it tightly, lets it fill his hand like the scent of John’s arousal is already filling his head and making him dizzier. Ravenous for John’s cock, he barely keeps himself from grinding it; he starts stroking with a heavy palm instead. John all but catapults his hips up into the air, his breath coming out in a ragged cant of _oh, Sher_ — _oh God, oh God..._

Sherlock is like a man possessed. He really does want to drag this out—there is a small voice in his head, trying to make him slow down and appreciate this, appreciate the moment and the man. But it is precisely because of the man that Sherlock cannot make himself stop or slow; all he wants is to take, to break down, to _have_ John. His cock has sought friction of its own accord: it’s humping John’s knee, and through his haze Sherlock registers the patch it’s left on the hairs there, damp and sticky. The sight pushes him and he uses the next time John lifts his hips to pull down his boxer shorts. John’s cock stands free. Full, red and glistening, it is in Sherlock’s mouth in less than a second. Sherlock closes his eyes and swallows most of it, his tongue flattening itself along the shaft and moving around it like a shameless pole dancer. He can hear John’s breathless pleas _Jesus, Jesus Christ, Sherlock, please, oh God, yes, Sherlock_ ; Sherlock sucks him steadily, his hands helping: one is squeezing John’s thigh, pushing it open more and more; the other is holding the base of John’s cock, adding strokes to meet Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock slurps obscenely, mouth watering with pleasure.

He opens his eyes and sees John’s head rolling left to right to left again, face red. John’s shaking hands skitter over Sherlock’s hair, neck, shoulders. The light falls over his forehead and its rays trickle down to illuminate John’s face; Sherlock watches John’s eyelashes in a daze: dark blond and so long and thick. And fluttering to open—right at that moment John lifts his head to look at Sherlock. He groans at what he sees and the muscles in his thighs get incredibly tense. Sherlock lets him out of his mouth and climbs on top of him, tongue pushing in for a deep kiss. He rocks their bodies together, both of them gasping, then he quickly pulls away to remove his own trousers and underwear. He is overcome with need as he climbs onto John again, elbowing him and sending coins flying to the floor in a cloudburst of chiming metal.

Sherlock leans his body flush against John’s and grabs a fistful of soft hair. He is shaking and staring at John, lost for a place to start. John shuffles under him and opens his legs, then tries to wriggle Sherlock to nest between them, all the while making little _ngh_ noises. Sherlock clasps John’s hands above his head and begins kissing and sucking _everywhere_ in a frenzy. He rubs his cock over John’s belly and John’s legs lift for his feet to find purchase on the table and spread wider. Sherlock starts guiding his body, arranging it on instinct, his mouth dropping down to kiss and scrape at John’s neck and collarbone—until his cock slips under John’s body and Sherlock feels the cold wood of the table. He opens his eyes and stops for a second; John’s legs lock around his waist in a gesture of tight, hungry intimacy.

Sherlock disentangles himself abruptly and staggers to the kitchen counter. He lifts the lid of the butter dish, fingers shaking while he dips them into the smooth substance. Then he’s back between John’s legs, one hand propping his body up so that he looms over John’s possessively; the other slips between John’s buttocks and seeks his entrance. John hasn’t blinked from the moment the butter dish lid clattered over the counter. Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s and hold them, while his slick finger pushes in. _Oooh_ , Sherlock drawls, eyelids drooping and mouth slacking with lust. Heat and tightness clasp around his finger and he sucks air in through his teeth, while his eyes savour John’s unguarded face. Sherlock pushes two fingers in, biting his lip painfully; John tenses but then pushes back onto them, hitching his thighs all the way up. Sherlock finds the gesture unbearably erotic. He manages two more strokes with his fingers, before he spreads the melted remains of the butter over his cock and pushes into John with a sob of desperation.

John arches back again, mouth flying open and body uncoiling around Sherlock, letting him all the way in. Sherlock splays his hand next to John’s face and uses the other to wrap around John’s leg and lift it over his shoulder.

It’s very quick and it’s rough. Sherlock fucks John, table rocking and both of them grunting with the thrusts. John’s hand is a blur on his own cock, his eyes rolling in his head and then dancing over the face of the wild man above him. Sherlock shoves deeper and deeper, eyes locking on John’s face and filling with supreme arousal and something akin to shock.

He watches how John’s neck strains from throwing back his head; he sees the mouth gape again, then hears his own name in John’s moan. Sherlock feels the clenching around his cock; he tucks his chin into his chest to look at the mess John’s making over his stomach—and he is coming hard, coming _inside_ John and it’s so excruciating, _so_ good it makes Sherlock choke.

Eventually he stops shuddering and manages to pull out with some care, then drops like a dead weight onto John. He stills there, chest bravely attempting to keep the works going while his mind reels, both completely empty and full to the brim. He can smell John and sex; gradually he begins feeling stickiness in the lower regions of his body. He identifies a noise next to his ear as a repetitive throat clearing, and John prods him with a soft finger.

“Mind getting off?"

Sherlock lifts his head to peer at John’s face. He’s sadly aware his own expression probably bears the same resemblance to a dazed tortoise, so he swallows his comment and tilts his head.

“You’re staring,” John says, breath still uneven. Sherlock blinks.

“And you’re still squashing me.” John adds.

Sherlock lifts himself up with great effort and flops on his back next to John. His fingers crawl over the table and find John’s to rest next to them.

They catch their breath for another minute, before Sherlock’s brain starts working in a very specific direction.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“You know how I won—“

“Sherlock, do you have to—“

Sherlock takes hold of John’s fingers.

“Quiet. I did win. But I chose to collect my winnings in a…different form.”

John turns to look at Sherlock.

“I’m listening.”

“Well, since the money is present, but is technically neither mine nor yours, we’ll have to find a way to resolve that.”

John slowly nods.

“Another game.”

“Tomorrow night. Same time, same place.”

John turns to prop on his elbow, wincing; but then a predatory smile shows up on his lips as he lowers his head to Sherlock’s.

“Good. I’ve learnt a thing or two about your strategies tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll be the one collecting.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe. Original entry at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/14043.html No real knowledge of the rules of poker is necessary.


End file.
